He tried to sit up. The movement was a failure, resulting in a throbbing pain in the region of "Adam's apple". Remaining quiet for a few minutes he racked his bewildered brains to find a solution to the mystery.
He was lying on his left side, his head supported on a folded coat. His forehead was bound round with a wet cloth. Why he knew not. It wasn't his head but his neck that was giving him pain.
And what was the boat's lantern doing there?
Then he became aware of a hand touching him lightly on the forehead. He recoiled at the touch, and, turning his head, saw Olive kneeling on the deck beside him.
"Hello!" he exclaimed feebly. "Where am I?"
"Still on the dhow," replied the girl. "You—we—are all right now."
"Are we?" rejoined Peter, still mystified. "Why is she run up into the wind? Can you give me a drink of water?"
Mostyn drank with difficulty. The liquid was refreshing to his parched tongue and lips, although it was a painful task to swallow. Then he looked at the girl again.
Her face was deathly pale, even in the yellow glare of the lantern. She was bareheaded, her hair, loosely plaited, falling over her shoulders. There were dark patches on the hem of her badly worn skirt.
Then in a flash Mostyn remembered everything up to the time when he had lost consciousness—the treacherous attack upon his sleeping companions, his double fight against the four Arabs. Where were they now?